


let me live through your vice

by thefudge



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabbles & Oneshots, Erik is a work of art and he behaves like one, F/M, Smut, guaranteed 100 percent TRASH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-23 03:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: A collection of Erik/Reader drabbles & oneshots (with requests from tumblr)





	1. on ice/winter olympics AU

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still so very thirsty. 
> 
> also, this first one is for the anon who requested: "Pls do an olympics AU". enjoyyyy

 

He's eyeing the competition in that serene, off-hand way that betrays no insecurity. He even waves at Tessa and Scott, like he's just being a pal. Trophies and medals don't matter to him, he's just happy to be here. That's what he drones on in all the interviews, holding a hand at the base of your spine, pointedly fixing your posture.  You always sit very straight next to him.

"Yeah, if you're only skating to win, you ain't doing it right," he says with a charming, deprecating smile. 

 

 

"I want to wipe the fucking floor with them," he says with his head against your shoulder, perched there softly, menacingly. He spins you around him, hand under your left breast, the other arm lifting you over his back in a deep outside edge. It's so fluid and effortless, but behind this delicate sequence lie hours of intense, absorbing, sweat-soaking dancing. You are both polished stones. 

You lie on his back with your hands extended artfully. 

What aches about these movements is that they only last seconds. Already he's dipping you down into a death spiral. He holds you with one arm as the rest of your body plunges close to the ice, only a hair's breadth away. 

"Kiss it," he instructs, because that's the ritual you two have crafted for each other. Even though you could break your back, even though he could release you and you'd crash against the rink, you stretch your head as far as it can go and you press your lips against the cold ice. 

 When he pulls you back up against him, he presses a thumb to your lips. "What are we gonna do, sweetheart?"

 You unfurl away from him in a perfect arabesque, your leg extending behind you like an arrow. "Wipe the fucking floor with them."

Erik grins at you. He skates lazy circles around you at first, then faster and faster, closing in, drawing back, surrounding you in a vortex of his movements. You smile because he's testing you. You center yourself on his face. You never grow dizzy. So when he grabs you by the waist and throws you in the air, you're ready. You do a double flying spin, landing on the ice with a crunching, satisfying thud. 

Your skirts fly up around your thighs as you swivel towards him and curl your finger playfully, beckoning him.

There's no music this time. Your coach insisted that you two should be able to do the routine with and without background rhythm. 

But silence is a music. Your breaths in tandem, the barely whispered friction of your bodies, the audible pressure of his hands against your thighs. 

The trick of the performance is, he never catches you, even when he does.

You gotta be the bird who's always ready to take flight. When he grabs the side of your throat and spins you towards him, you press a hand into his chest and use his body as a jumping off point.

Erik loves this part. When the blade of your skate almost grazes his skin as he lifts you above his head. Often times, he will get nicked on purpose. During one performance, he cut the side of his jaw and you almost wanted to stop - but one look in his eye and you knew that he would have eaten you alive if you dared to break the dance. 

That's the thing with your partner, you've known him since you were fifteen, but you don't _really_ know much. Erik is still this frustrating enigma who only unleashes on the ice rink. 

In public, he is a studied professional, playing the part of the funny, modest, laid-back kid from Oakland who only cares about the "art". 

In private, he struts into your hotel room at 5 in the morning and pulls the sheets off you.

"Uhh, my muscles are still sore, coach said we can take the day off -"

Like he fucking cares.

He picks you up without preamble. He strips the PJs off you while he carries you into the shower.  The fact that he can do this using only one hand is aggravating.

Cold water hits your back.

You glare at him. 

"Well?" you drawl. "Finish the job." And you throw the shampoo at him.

He grins and gets in with you. 

 

 

(Oh yeah, he cares so much about the _art_. He _loves_ the art. He lives and dies for his art. But as you hook your legs around his waist and he takes your breast in his mouth, tongue tracing eight-figures against your nipple, you have a feeling he wants a medal for this too. He wants to be the best at shower-fucking. That's how he operates. You think. Like you said, frustrating enigma)

 

 

 

It's a thrill for the audience and a plus for the sponsors if the dancers not only share chemistry, but also show _real_ emotion when they hold each other. People go _wild_ about pairs who romance each other, who barter in small affectionate gestures when no one (but actually, everyone) is looking. Tessa and Scott and Vanessa and Morgan excel in such knightly courtship. 

You and Erik are the exception. You don't indulge in sweet nothings. You don't cater to that Nutcracker aesthetic. 

They call you the "Ice Killers". 

When each performance ends, he looks like he wants to murder you. Technically, you're embracing, but he's got your head in a vise grip and you've got your claws in his back. Yeah, actual sharpened claws. They're part of your costume. Remember the bird? Yeah. In fact, your whole choreography mirrors a violent climax of chilling proportions. Sometimes, the bird takes out his eyes. Sometimes, Erik feasts on its carcass.

Bottom line is, romance is dead and you guys killed it. 

Cuz that's your gimmick. _That's_ how you two get sponsors.

You're everyone's guilty pleasure. You're what they secretly crave. Two dancers who look like they're going to stain the ice bright red. 

 

 

The ice always smells like raw meat before a semi-finale. 

They announce your names. The first jaunty notes of Club des Belugas' "Straight to Memphis" shake up the rink. 

Vanessa and Morgan danced on a sultry, moody cover of "Sound of Silence". The audience is still recovering.

But you guys don't give a shit. You roll your blades against that wistfulness, circling each other like vultures. You're not here for a funeral. Melancholy is for people who don't know how to fight. 

You flaunt your bodies like weapons and you grin at each other, because you're the pair that makes the aunts clutch their pearls. 

You stand, back to back, waiting for your second cue. 

"Let's fuck'em," Erik murmurs, smiling that good boy smile. 

"Let's," you agree, flashing a starling grin at the audience. 

You disengage, rushing towards opposite points. 

Erik turns around in time with the music. He advances towards you. You shake your hips and slam your skates against the ice, making the flurry hit his face. 

And the chase begins. 

 


	2. neighbor AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @lightninginmyeyes over on tumblr: "Reader is new to the neighborhood."

“You need help with that?”

You raise your head like a deer caught in the headlights. You’re practically buried in boxes. You kind of forgot other people use this hallway too. Your mouth goes a little dry when you look up. The guy standing in front of you is very striking. Scratch that, he’s the human embodiment of that M.I.A. song, “Paper Planes”.

And for some inexplicable reason – maybe it's the part of your reptilian brain that senses danger – you say “Nah, thanks, I’m almost done”.

You are not. There are like a hundred more boxes to go.

He laughs this low, dismissive laugh and he grabs three of your boxes like they weigh nothing. “Come on.”

He lets himself in.

You follow, begrudgingly, trying not to stare at him too hard.

“Where do you want these?” he asks, strolling through each room, looking around like he owns the place.

“You can leave them in the living room, thanks,” you say, “but you really don’t have to go to all this trouble…”

“Hey, no trouble. What are neighbors for?”

“Oh, you live here?” and okay, that is a pretty dumb question since he’s already confirmed it, but you’re not great at putting words into sentences right now.

“Yeah, just down the hall. So…you know who to call.”

“Ghostbusters?” you blurt out. And you want to die. Why did that come out of your damn mouth?

He laughs again, that troubling laugh that feels like a second shadow. You don’t know why someone so beautiful makes you so uneasy.

“You’re funny,” he notes with mischief in his eyes.

“Who, me?” and you shake your head in mock-disbelief. He still smiles at you, but you notice there’s something impatient behind this friendly demeanor.

You dash into the hallway for another box. This goes on for several minutes and, once or twice you almost bump into each other in the doorway but you tell yourself you didn’t do it on purpose.

You notice as his shirt-sleeves roll back that the skin of his arm is raised with scars. You don’t even know his name, but you want to ask what the fuck happened there. But your mama didn’t raise you that rude.

“So…” you stuff your hands in your pockets. “I feel like I should offer you a beer.” 

He straightens his back. “Something tells me you don’t have any.”

And shit, he’s right. When did you have time to _shop_? Also why is your brain fried? Also, also, you don’t even drink beer.

He notices your predicament and waves it off. “Don’t sweat it, I can go down and get some. Anything else you need?”

Holy shit, is he offering to shop for you? Cuz that just seems too good to be true.

“Uhh, if I gave you the whole list, you'd never come back. So let’s just go for beer,” you laugh, trying to sound cool about it.

 But he sizes you up in a way that feels too intimate.  “Beer goes great with pizza.”

 

 

And this is how you find yourself on the floor, sitting cross-legged on bed sheets with your neighbor, sharing a slice while you watch _Best of Vines 2016 (RIP)_ on Youtube. Yeah, your internet connection isn't stronger for anything else right now. Also, the couch hasn’t arrived yet. This is the best you could do.

But you guys are actually having fun. You think. He’s still waaay out of your league, but a little more approachable when he’s trying to chew off a long string of mozzarella. 

“Oh my God,” you realize out loud, as an _Annie, are you okay?_ Vine plays in the background, “I forgot to ask your name.”

He coughs back a laugh as he bites down on the cheese.

There’s a pause as he wipes his mouth and stares at you. This might sound dumb, but the way his eyes trail over your figure, it’s like he’s about to say, _my name? yeah, you’ll be screaming it tonight._

He actually tells you his name, but you're still thinking those dirty thoughts and you blank for too long. When you return to reality, it’s too late. He’s already said it. Fuck. You drum your fingers against your knee.

“That’s…is that foreign?” you ask, hoping he’ll repeat it or at least give you a hint.

“Yeah, kind of,” he shrugs.

Oh, hell. There went your chance. You feel so guilty about not paying attention that you decide to give him the last two slices.

You tell yourself you’re gonna go down to the mail boxes and find out his name.

But that turns out to be unnecessary…. and you don’t make it downstairs.

 

 

Maybe you're buzzed from the beer – you’re such a lightweight – but it’s a few hours later and you guys are still watching Youtube videos. One suggestion led to another and now you’re giggling over the Angry Christian Lady Remix of Norf Norf.

“What kills me is whenever you see her kid in the background…just sitting there…watching her mom lose her shit,” you snort, sliding on your elbows, losing your balance, and your nameless neighbor is there to catch you. He smiles down at you, pulling a loose curl behind your ear.

Okay, maybe you’re _more_ than buzzed, cuz you could swear he whispers, “yeah…bitch just needs some good dick, is all”. But that _can’t_ be right. His lips didn’t even move. And who the _hell_ says that to a stranger? Must be your overactive imagination. So instead of going “holy shit”, you just sort of lie there and giggle as his mouth descends on yours.

Uh-oh.

 

 

He’s equal parts amused and angry when he figures out you didn’t catch his name. He’s kissing the side of your jaw and one of his hands is stroking your clit through your underwear but you’re struggling to…express your feelings given that you don’t know what to call him.

So you just sort of moan an indistinct “aahh…yes… _you_ …” which makes him pause.

He grabs your chin – a little forcefully – and makes you stare at him.

“It’s Erik, sweetheart. No one else.”

_Ooh_ , your brain emits stupidly. Because you _knew_ it was something vaguely Nordic. And you wanna tell him you were close to guessing, but he inserts a finger inside you and you’re a little distracted.

“Say it.”

“ _Eriiik_ …” you moan.

He makes you say it with each stroke.

“Say my name. Again.”

“Erik, Erik…”

“Say it. Say my name.”

“Erik, Erik, Erik, _Erik_ …” the litany falls from your lips as he makes you twitch around his fingers. He doesn’t let you cum right away though. No, he’s barely unzipped his pants. This is gonna last awhile.

You soon wear it out. His name, that is. But he doesn’t seem to grow tired of it.

 

 

(Later, like _way_ later, when you’re fully sober and you got better Internet and you’re feeling both ashamed and delighted about your fling, you google his name. You find out “Erik” means _Eternal King_ in Old Norse)

 

 

He picks you up from the floor and gently deposits you on the bare mattress in the bedroom. You stir slightly in your sleep. He smiles and kisses the top of your nose. The gesture would be affectionate, except he’s got this far-away look in his eyes.

Erik walks over to the window, pulls on the blinds, checks the empty street outside. He whips out his phone.

_Made contact with T._

T would be you. You’re the Target. He’s supposed to extract some information from your family and well – you’re the convenient weak link.

Now, it’s true his training specifies he can use any means available to him, but as a rule, the CIA don’t like messy entanglements. So, he shouldn’t have fucked you. At least not on the first damn day.

But truth to be told, he’s been tracking your movements for _weeks_ , waiting for when you’d finally move into the new building, so his patience was growing thin.

He smiles to himself. Higher-ups are not gonna like this.

But hey, he likes the way you say his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that Drake cover of "say my name" inspired aaall of this. hope u enjoyed!


	3. poison (a semester at MIT AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt on tumblr from @gray-jedi-scavenger-rey: A semester at MIT with Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the headcanon for this oneshot is that Erik studied biomolecular engineering at MIT (fight me). Anyway, I am a dumbass ignorant in all scientific fields, so excuse the inaccuracies. Also, watch out cuz the Reader in this one is...someone you already know? Yes, I'm cheating a bit.  
> Anyway, can I just say yall are wonderful? Wonderful. Thank you.

“So, here’s a tough nut. Say you had to poison someone. How would you do it without going over a 100 dollar-budget and without it being traced?”

You bite your nails as you stare at your advisor. He’s in one of his funks again. You could just classify him as another crazy white man, but he is legit brilliant. He challenges all of you with his maverick suggestions on a daily basis. This is just another kind of challenge.

So you give it serious thought.

Once a month, he invites the 3% of his class for a “jam session”. It’s…very nerdy. Five of you get to hang out in his enviable Georgian-style brick house. Nothing about it screams MIT Professor who specializes in biomolecular engineering, but he does have a lot of throw pillows of Fritz Haber. Custom-made.

Your classmates are also pondering the task at hand, brows furrowed.

You see Erik has raised his hand. You try not to stare at him. He’s got no right to look this good during midterms, to be honest. Your dark circles are currently competing with the Mariana Trench.

But this guy…he makes librarian glasses look good. Even when he throws on a random jacket and a pair of washed-out jeans, he is classy as fuck.  It’s not fair.

It’s also not fair that he’s the sultry, moody kid in the back of the class who seems to be constantly zoned out, until he’s called on and then he knows _all_ the damn answers. Several professors have fallen for this and tried to test him. Ha. Turns out Erik can school the best of them. Some would call him a prodigy. You like to think of him as that really, _really_ terrible Crush you should stay away from.

But he’s also your competition. And this tends to cool off your hormones.

 “You didn’t specify if it would be lethal,” Erik remarks.

“Very good! One of you is already thinking ahead!” Prof. Coldwell rubs his hands in satisfaction. “Excellent, Erik. It’s true, I _didn’t_ specify. Which means you don’t necessarily have to kill your target.”

This both simplifies and complicates things, because a _lot_ of substances can cause harm, depending on bodily intake.

Your classmates are tapping their pencils against their notepads.

Erik doesn’t seem to need a notepad. He leans back and stares at the ceiling with a strange look in his eye.

Suddenly, you really don’t want _him_ to be the first to find that perfect poison.

You want to say it before he does. So, you bite the end of your pencil and force your mind to think, think, _think_.

Two of your classmates come up with a mercury-fluoride cocktail that would be filtered into the community’s water supplies and cause minor physical ailments. It’s vicious and effective, but it’s a bit too Cold War-ish for the professor’s taste. Not to mention, it risks going over budget to infiltrate water supplies.

Another person suggests extracting the toxin from pufferfish sashimi. And while that’s creative, it’s also expensive as fuck.

And then, Erik stops looking at the ceiling.

“Fifty Vitamin A tablets mashed into a powder. Served with water.”

Everyone stares at him.

Prof Coldwell whoops in enthusiasm. “Hypervitaminosis! Giving the body too many vitamins! Brilliant as always, Erik.”

Damn it. _Damn_ him. You picture shoving Vitamin A into his –

No. You haven’t said your idea yet. It’s gotta be better. It’s gotta be. Besides, Vitamin A surplus is a pretty mild inconvenience unless ingested in industrial quantities. There’s a limit to how much you can trick a person into taking.

There’s gotta be something better.

  _Come on, think._

Everyone else reaches for the “genuine” German Kraft Beer that the professor has laid out on the coffee table.

You don’t touch your drink. You don’t mess with that yucky stuff anyway.

 _Come the fuck on,_ you press your fist into your forehead.

Erik is about to take a swig from his mug.

“Castor oil seeds!” you almost shout, making your classmates spill their beer.

Prof Coldwell blinks.

“You can buy them literally anywhere: Amazon, downtown pharmacy…your local homeopath farm. They’re dead cheap and very effective. You just break the hulls and you make the poison in your own kitchen.”

There’s a heavy pause while everyone puts down their beers.

Erik addresses you for the first time.

“Ricin,” he says, jutting his chin forward.

You smile. “Yup. Your basic, highly toxic ricin. You can play with the level of contamination and choose whether to make it lethal or not. But it leaves almost no trace.”

Prof Coldwell slams his fist against the table. “Now that’s what I am talking about! That’s the kind of ingenious thinking we need. We have a clear winner here.”

You glow a little. Even your dark circles seem to vanish under the lavish praise.

_Winner._

Erik is still staring at you. This must be the longest he’s ever looked at you.

 

 

He takes more notice of you after that meeting. You always seemed like the average drone who works hard but lacks imagination. You get good grades, you don’t stay out too late, you wear big sweaters and small earrings, you never tried to flatten your frizzy curls, and you stick to your territory.

But maybe that’s a front. He wonders.

He sits behind you in class and you feel his stare on the back of your neck. You want to chase it away. You wanna tell him that he’s still smarter, if that’s what’s bothering him.

You hear him lean forward in his seat, the wood creaking softly. You feel his breath in your hair.

You don’t turn around. You just continue taking notes, your fingers slightly awry.

At the end of the class, it turns out he wasn’t sitting behind you. But you can’t be sure.

 

 

You’re out with your girlfriends bowling. You suck at it, cuz you always manage to throw the bowling ball into the other lane or on the side. If you manage to strike three pins it’s a good day. You don’t know why you lack such basic coordination. I mean hell, you work with much more sensitive apparatus in the lab.

As you slide your fingers into the ball’s holes you have a sudden, alarming thought.

Hundreds of people slide their fingers here on a daily basis. Given the number of costumers, if you were to go by a month-per-month estimate, these holes are penetrated enough that you could draw an exponential function. You do it in your head.

Say they clean these balls once a week, which is unlikely. That leaves plenty of time for exposure.

You tell your girlfriends you gotta go. They look pretty puzzled. “What’s up with you?”

A lot.

 

 

You find Erik in the Bio-Mol group chat on the university forum. Everyone is talking assignments or getting wasted after midterms.

You hit up his chat box.

_Hey. I have another idea for P._

A pretty ludicrous thing to say to a guy. But if anyone is keeping tabs on these chats, they’ll just think you’re talking smut. You hope he figures it out.

Twenty minutes later, not that you’re counting, he deigns to reply.

_Cool. Meet in the library._

The _library_? That’s…not what you expected. You spend some agonizing minutes trying to think of what to wear. And if you should consider doing something with your hair. Is your face presentable? Ugh, you _bet_ he’s gonna look good.

 

 

He does. He smells like he just took a shower, like steam is still clinging to him. He’s fresh-faced at 10 PM, but also carries with him an attitude like he just got out of bed. You slide into the seat opposite his and hunch forward. His scent momentarily ensnares you. You can’t think straight. You just want to bury your face in his shirt.

Erik doesn’t smirk, but he might as well. He must know his own powers.

You shake your head and press on.

“So, have you ever bowled?”

“That why you called me here?”

“ _You_ said the library,” you remind him.

He shrugs. “Just tell me what this is about.”

You oblige. Once you get into the gritty minutiae of your idea, he doesn’t look amused anymore. He looks the way he does when he thinks no one is watching. Intensely focused, to the point where _nothing_ else exists, except what he deems interesting.

You sweat a little.

“Let’s try it out,” he says casually, but his eyes have a strange, unbearable intensity.

 

 

You book the lab for an after-hours session. You use the pass that’s got Mr. Coldwell’s signature on it. He loves his 3% kids.

Erik handles the glass beaker like a violin. You watch his hands work. His lower lip juts out in concentration.

You’re extracting what you need from a cheap household cleaner. It’s mainly about breaking down the ammonium and the boric acid.

“Oh yeah, this shit ruined my mom’s hands and lungs,” you say, off-hand, trying not to sound bitter.

Erik raises an eyebrow.

“She, uh, cleans hospitals,” you elaborate with a chip on your shoulder. “Ironic that she got sick while working there.”

“Nah,” he replies, rolling his shoulders. “Nothing ironic about it.”

And he hands you the syringe. You take it gingerly. You’re gonna add a little something extra to the boric acid.

 

 

The point isn’t to poison as many people as possible, you’re not _insane_. Besides, this is only an experiment. You just want to find out if the substance could possibly affect a small, isolated group of players.

You both sign up for one of the playing lanes. And you pretend to wipe the balls out of some hygienic concern. But you sprinkle and smear the holes with your little “disinfectant”.

Then, you choose different balls to play.

Erik is naturally good at it, since he seems to be good at everything. But he’s determined to teach you as well.

He comes up behind you and puts his hands on your hips, which has the effect of freezing you in place. Then he raises your elbow and loosens your wrist. His touch is like the sting of a jellyfish, and you know because you got stung once when you were seven. It didn’t hurt as bad as they told you it would, it was more like phantom pain, like teeth coming out of your skin. You picture his teeth coming out of your skin.

You throw the ball together. It still only hits three pins.

Erik chuckles in your ear. “Guess you’re hopeless, huh?”

 

 

You both occupy a table in the snack area and watch the groups of players take up their lanes. You’re both nursing warm milkshakes, pretending like you’re not paying attention.

 _Hey_ , you think absurdly, _this is almost like a date._

Erik licks his thumb after wiping some of the whipped cream. You lower your head and lick the edge of the glass. Your mouth is stained white.

You’re not ready for the charged energy between you.

You stumble. “What did you think about the lecture on bio-compatible polymeric materials?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I thought it was boring.”

“Oh.”

“I mean…theory’s good, but I don’t give a shit about “passivating” polymer surfaces to minimize protein interaction,” he drawls.  

You notice he still _knows_ the theory.

“What _do_ you give a shit about?” you inquire.

He tilts his head to the side, like he can’t take you _seriously_   when you ask corny stuff like that. But also you feel that this question may actually be _more_ serious for him than it is for you. Meaning, there’s something that Erik probably cares deeply about. And it’s big enough that he’ll never tell you.

But he signals you with his eyes.

The players slip their fingers through the holes in the bowling balls.

You both stare at them, relishing their ignorance, the blind, trusting way they put their hands inside darkness.

You smile dimly because they have no idea.

 

 

People go home at night, park their cars in the allotted space, take off their shoes in the doorway and – usually, they go directly for the fridge to grab a bottle, without washing their hands first.

Maybe some of them do sprint up to the bathroom. But a great percentage ignores this safety measure until it’s too late.

Even if they washed their hands, though, the small red rash on the patch of skin between thumb and forefinger won’t go away so easily.

In the next few days, the rash becomes uncomfortable, a jellyfish sting. Teeth coming out of your skin.

 

 

You sit next to Erik on Prof. Coldwell’s couch. Your knees are touching. The professor is telling you about his trip to California over Christmas. He met with a former colleague from Cal Tech who is looking for assistants on a special, _sensitive_ project involving intracellular manipulation of organelles. He is thinking of recommending some of you. It would be a great pseudo-internship. Pay is negotiable, but it’s the _adventure_ that counts.

All of you nod respectfully, wondering about your future.

It’s only Erik who doesn’t appear swayed by the idea. He leans back on the couch and stares up at the ceiling again. You nudge him playfully in the shoulder.

“California too hot for you?”

You find out later he grew up in Oakland.

He stares you down.

“I’m joining the SEALS first thing I graduate.”

There is an audible gasp around the room. Prof. Coldwell looks physically hurt. He welcomed you all in the sanctity of his illustrious home because he thought all of you were destined for great things. One day, he thought he’d have a throw pillow with _your_ face on it.

But this…this is cruel, unthinkable disappointment. 9/11 happened just a year ago. He didn’t think one of his brightest would take the bait.

Erik shrugs and sinks further into the couch. His arm comes around you, not touching you. But it’s clear he’s taking ownership.

As if to say, _you can’t have her either, Professor._

 

 

You don’t go to California. Just as well. You also know it’s not 9/11 that made Erik want to join the Army. He’s not one for beehive mentality. No, he’s _after_ something.

You swap emails, promise to keep in touch. You still have ideas. And he’s the person to share them with.

In a way, you wait for him. This isn’t to say you don’t move on with your life, but there’s always a secret Erik corner you retreat to when the hour is late and the bed is cold.

You remember that last semester before graduation. How you two tested out your own brew of disinfectants, coffee sweeteners, scented oils. How you went from establishment to establishment, sometimes the Mall too. How you infiltrated your products under people’s noses. It felt good. It felt bad. No one died. No one got seriously hurt. Maybe just you.

One time, after a particular session at Bed, Bath & Beyond where you fucked up their bath salts, he was hungry for you and you made out in his car. “Made out” being kind of a lousy descriptor. He pulled down the seats and made a mess of you.

There were sticky drops of cum on your belly and he made you wipe them off and swallow. 

That’s another kind of poison.

 

 

You’re probably not the first person he calls when he returns, but does he ever really call anyone? Does he have _need_ for anyone?

You open the door for him and let him step into your apartment.

He kicks off his shoes and tells you to undress, asks you to turn on the air conditioning too, it’s sweltering.

“No hello? How’s it been?” you joke, scratching your arm nervously.

“Yeah, we have time for that later.”

 

 

He makes a tourniquet of your shirt, ties it around your arm. He taps the syringe with his forefinger and thumb. You stare at the fresh scars on his bare torso. Little etchings, the kind people in jail scratch on the wall.

“This is gonna hurt, but you’re gonna feel good afterwards,” he assures you, like you’re back in the lab.

It’s not that you fling caution at the wind. It’s that you want to hurt, and then you want to feel good.

 

 

  _Oh my God._ You want to tear out your own fucking eyeballs.

He grins down at you. He slips his fingers inside you, and you’re dark and poisonous like the bowling ball.

 

 

Later, you’re sprawled together in bed, legs intertwined, and you're watching Breaking Bad.

“Look babe. Heisenberg stole your idea. Fucking copy-cat,” he murmurs against your back.

 _Babe, babe, babe_ your mind reels. And Erik’s right. Walter White used ricin to poison Lydia.

You laugh suddenly, explosively, like you’re both still in college.

Erik turns you around and kisses you silent.

When he’s done, he tugs at one of your curls and says “I got a job for you and me.”

And when he’s done detailing the “job” which involves moving to England for a few months and working at a history museum, you kind of want to say no. You already have a job here in Boston.

But he says it's temporary and it'll be worth it. Besides, there's the irresistible “you and me”.

Cuz when they ask you “what’s your poison?” you know it’s always him.


End file.
